Lady Claire Augustus closed her eyes as she drew a bucket of water from a runic spring. Raising it overhead, she poured the sparkling liquid over her body, soaking her ceremonial garb and revitalizing the arctic-blue scales scattered across her figure. Her shoulder-length hair, which shared her scales’ sky-like colour, glistened in the candlelit darkness each time she repeated the motion. Once, twice, thrice, as her heart pounded loudly in her chest.
Her fists were balled and her teeth were clenched. Even the long fuzzy ears that sprouted from the sides of her head were curled. A faint trembling coursed through her spine, urged at least in part by the mind-numbing cold. With a shake of the head, she opened her slit eyes, touched the large, triangular scales on her cheeks, and drew a deep breath. Despite the fresh air pumping through her lungs, her fingers continued to tremble until she placed her hand atop a circular stone. With another breath, she tapped into the raw mana flowing through her magic circuits and channelled it into the artifact. The rock’s enchanted lettering came to life as it borrowed her power. A faint, green glow filled the room, accompanied by a warm breeze unbefitting the early morning. It dried her out immediately, removing the moisture from her ritualistic garment in the blink of an eye.
Turning her gaze to the door, she paused briefly to comb her hair and straighten her dress. It was hardly necessary with only her father and tutor as witness, but Claire took the time regardless. A lady always had to look her best. Even on the day she died.
She emerged from the inner chamber and entered the ritual hall. Without looking at either cloaked observer, she seated herself in front of the ancient altar and slowly closed her eyes. Vision sealed or not, she could still see the stone pillars that lined the atrium. The religious motifs, the amplifying runes, and even the cracks in the walls. All as familiar as the back of her hand.
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For ten long years, nearly two-thirds of her life, she had served as the manor’s ritual mage. She had prayed, sung, and danced—even sacrificed those she knew. Now, it was her turn to offer her life in the curse god’s name.
Lips trembling, she traced her fingers across each item on the altar—the candle, the dagger, and the freshly picked rose—before clasping her hands in her lap and invoking the ancient spell.
Her mana spread out from her core, arranging itself around her body in a circle that spanned the room. The runic formation pulsed with a faint, crimson glow as it spun to life. Each beat matched with a pump of her heart—a rapid, chaotic flicker.
“O Builledracht, great god of curses and bringer of unending despair.” Still, her voice was clear as a bell.
She picked up the knife and slit open a finger without a moment’s hesitation. Her expression perfectly controlled, she pressed the digit against the altar and drew an ancient rune with a graceful, practiced motion. The candle flickered to life on its own when she placed it in the centre of her canvas. It shared the position with the rose, which soon dried, shrivelled, and crumbled to dust.
“I beseech not a miracle upon my person, but a plague upon my nemeses.”
With the last petal burned, the ritual mage directed her gaze towards the dagger and turned its blade upon her chest. There was a slit in her dress, a thin gap crafted for the weapon at hand.
“For my lifeblood, I seek their eternal damnation, for their souls to be withered and stolen away.”
Silently, carefully, she thrust the sharpened blade. It sank past her flesh, through her ribs, and into her heart. She barely felt it at first, but an excruciating pain accompanied the following pulse.
The final step was to twist the knife and end her suffering. To do as promised to the deity and present her soul. But Claire did no such thing. She gritted her teeth instead and concentrated on the flow of magic. There was finally enough of it spread throughout the air.
Stealthily as she could, she drew another symbol across the floor with her bloodied finger. Her first spell dispersed. But before its backlash could register, she closed her eyes, cast another, and spirited herself away.
